


The Quill.

by brilliantim



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Hogwarts!au, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliantim/pseuds/brilliantim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire had given him a quill for Christmas in their sixth year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quill.

**Author's Note:**

> This was another prompt fill for Jess because I felt I owed her after my last fic (Dulce Et Decorum Est) so she gave me the word "Feather" this time and I wrote this fluffy little drabble set at Hogwarts. I apologize for typos and other weird mistakes that might be found in this. Enjoy! :D

Grantaire had given him a quill for Christmas in their sixth year. The feather was light brown with black flecks on it, and the metal tip had an ornate E embroidered at the base. Enjolras had scolded him for it, trying not to picture how many galleons Grantaire had put into this silly gift, when he himself had only given Grantaire a new Hufflepuff scarf (He couldn’t help being bad at gifts okay, he’d always been. And Grantaire had actually lost his old one.). At first, Enjolras almost hadn’t dared to use it; scared it was going to break by the lightest touch. He’d kept it on his desk, where it kept distracting him from writing his essays, because the sight of it always made him think of Grantaire’s excited face as he’d placed the small packet in his hands. He’d been so nervous that Enjolras wouldn’t like it, as if that had been a possibility. But then again, those were the days when Enjolras had still been oblivious to Grantaire’s infatuation with him, and not realized how much the annoying Hufflepuff had come to grow on him. They had argued most of their school years away, only starting to see eye to eye at the end of their fifth year when they’d realized that they had somehow become friends without even noticing. It had taken them a few more months more before they’d been able to hang out by themselves without wanting to hex one another, the reason they’d even come together before having been shared friends who liked to gather at the Hog’s Head, talking about the future and how they would change the Ministry for the better one day.

Eventually, Enjolras had decided that it would be an awful shame not to use such an extraordinarily beautiful quill, leaving it to gather dust. He’d started bringing it to every class, and he remembered all too well Grantaire’s happy smile as he’s seen him use it for the first time, months after having received it, scribbling down notes during Herbology which the Gryffindors had always shared with the Hufflepuffs.  
“I’d thought you’d thrown that away.” He’d laughed, stuffing an oozing plant down a cracked pot.  
“I’ve just kept it safe.” Enjolras had answered and it was walking back towards the castle that afternoon that they’d first held hands. 

Then there was that one time when they’d decided to work on a Transfiguration paper together, but Grantaire had given up about half an hour into the session, studying Enjolras hand as he wrote instead. Irrational pride had boiled in him from seeing the quill so carefully embraced by Enjolras strong fingers. Enjolras had looked up, an annoyed frown on his face as he’d realized Grantaire had stopped working.  
“I thought we were doing this toge—“  
“I love you.” Grantaire had blurted out, not dropping his gaze from Enjolras surprised eyes. Then a smile so wide you’d think Grantaire had bewitched him (and perhaps he had).  
“And I love you.”

But being in love did not stop them from having bitter arguments. Once after a particularly bad fight, they hadn’t talked for weeks, the castle being so enormous it was quite easy to avoid someone when you wanted too. But they had eventually bumped into each other in the library, Grantaire sitting down at the Enjolras’ table in defiance, and the argument had started up again.  
“I don’t care what you think! It’s stupid!”  
“Why can’t you just realize that maybe you’re too cynical to see things clearly?”  
“I know for a fact that—“  
“But you don’t, Grantaire!” Enjolras had shouted, making Madame Pince flinch in horror, and he’d pressed the quill so hard into the parchment that with a loud snap, it broke in half. The silence was eerie. And then Enjolras had started crying. Grantaire had never seen Enjolras look even remotely sad before, and he had sat there in shocked silence for a whole minute before getting up from his chair and instead taking the one next to Enjolras, hugging him close until the other boy responded and held him just as tight.  
“It’s okay Enj’, we don’t have to talk about it anymore, I don’t care!” he’d shushed but Enjolras had just kept sobbing.  
“The quill, t-the quill.” He’d finally said, looking up into Grantaire’s eyes, shameful, “I’m so sorry Grantaire, I didn’t mean to…”  
“It’s just a silly quill Enjolras!” Grantaire had laughed, hugging Enjolras closer.  
“No, it’s not.” Enjolras had whispered. He’d marched straight to Flitwick’s office, somehow persuading the Professor to mend it for him. He made a great point of putting it down when they argued after that.

When year seven was coming to its end, Enjolras and Grantaire had been practically glued together in fear of the unknown future that lurked just a few weeks away. One morning, the sun had shone in through the tall windows of the Gryffindor tower, casting a soft light over Grantaire who’d slept in Enjolras’ bed. Enjolras had been awake for an hour, lying beside him and just looked. If he’d been artistic, he’d have written a poem right then about how happy he was. About how much more alive he felt when Grantaire was beside him, dressed in nothing and covered only by a thin sheet in red and gold. He’d reached for his quill then, thinking that he simply had to write Grantaire a poem, but as soon as the quill was in his fingers a new idea had come to his mind. Propping himself up on one elbow, he’d taken the tip on the quill in his fingers and slowly stroked the feather against Grantaire’s forehead. Nothing had happened. He’d repeated the process, this time over Grantaire’s nose. He’d twitched and Enjolras had stifled a laugh, feeling ridiculously giddy. When he’d slid the feather softly over his lips, Grantaire had grunted and his hand had come up to touch his face annoyance.  
“Wake up ‘Taire.” Enjolras had cooed in Grantaire’s ear, sliding the feather over it.  
“That tickles.” Grantaire was grumpy when he was tired. It was endearing. He’d opened one eye to glare at Enjolras and then closed it again, “I wanna sleep.”  
“You’ve slept long enough.” Enjolras had complained, dropped the quill on the side of the bed and hugged himself closer to Grantaire. “I want to make love.”  
“Jesus, Enjolras!” Grantaire had sighed fondly, kissed his lips and then they had made love until they’d fallen back to sleep, sweaty in each other’s arms, but holding on all the same.

The night before they took the train back to London, they stood together under the old oak tree by the great lake. This was the moment. Their last night before throwing themselves into a new life, with new every day experiences and new routines. And even though they loved each other with a fiery passion, it scared them not to know what their shared future would bring. Enjolras had been offered a grand position at the Ministry and Grantaire had won a scholarship to Beauxbatons to study moving art for three months. He’d nearly declined, but Enjolras had forced him to accept, telling him that they’d manage somehow, that France wasn’t that far away. But his reassurances were forgotten as they stood under the oak, holding each other, and kissing until their heads were spinning. When their lips parted, Enjolras was smiling, bringing a finger up to wipe a stray tear of Grantaire’s cheek.  
“I know what we will do.” He said, digging in his pocket and bringing out his quill, now so ruffled it could hardly be taken for the same one Grantaire had given him so long ago. His fingers stroked the feather absentmindedly as he spoke, “We’ll make sure this lasts forever ‘Taire.”  
“How?” Grantaire whispered, his voice trembling a little.  
“I’ll show you.” Enjolras smile was much wider as he brought his wand out of his pocket as well and tapped the metal tip of the quill so that it glowed red with heat. A light went up in Grantaire’s eyes as he understood, and the too grabbed the pen over Enjolras hand. Together, they scribbled first a little ‘e’ and then an uppercase ‘R’, because that’s how Grantaire had always signed his name and that is what made sense to them. It was a little wobbly perhaps, but they stepped back and admired their work, a Hufflepuff hand buried in a Gryffindor’s. And they knew that if by some cruel trick of fate they would forget the love they held for one another, Hogwarts never would.


End file.
